Templar: Prélude to Götterdämmerung
by Sobriquet Nightmare
Summary: Dalen Sarabande - a man of few words, and a man of a simple yet mysterious past. All that he knows is that his life will change the world, forever. Prélude to Götterdämmerung.


A/N: Disclaimer – I do not own Square Enix. Well, duh. What would the owner of Square Enix be doing here? And therefore I do not own the immaculately crafted realm of Final Fantasy Tactics Advance. This is a small little preview of a project that I will be working on after finishing all the other pieces of fiction I have lying around my account. Augh. Can't promise anything, but most likely I will start this by mid-2010. Hopefully you'll enjoy this, and it's really, really short. So hopefully this will live up to expectations, and I will be able to write well enough to get some place in Square Enix as an intern of sorts. Aha. Dreams. Pipe dreams.

I think if I were in Ivalice I would be a human peasant. With magic knowledge.

* * *

Templar: Prélude to Götterdämmerung

* * *

His armour shifted somewhat uncomfortably, the plates of the legendary Maximillian sliding across each surface smoothly as the templar stood, his back ramrod straight but his feet moving beneath. In one hand was a sheathed Knightsword, in the other was yet another piece of rare equipment. What made this figure so interesting was his ability to fight – he knew his skills and techniques well, and that was a given, but he took the best out of situations no one had ever expected were possible.

This man had single-handedly brought down the godfathers of clans hiding in the depths of Jagd Helje; this man had risen to the queen's overseer of Prince Mewt's own safety, even over Babus himself, in a span of only one cycle; this man was the only human who had the ability to manipulate the skills always associated with the Bangaa tribes. He was a myth in himself, and anyone who saw him could be assured either one of two things: that it was a ceremonial procession they were viewing, or that he was going for their heads.

Dalen sighed, Llednar placing a firm hand on his shoulder. The templar was a full two heads taller than the Biskmatar, and yet they seemed so compatible as friends. Llednar fingered his sword, the SaveTheQueen letting light dance along its fine crystal blade.

Ambervale was a beautiful place, but it was about to be a scene of the most ugly bloodshed of all time. Dalen would see to that. After all, with his name came the phrase "Bloody Sarabande". It was for his merciless disregard of life that he turned his battlefields into seas of crimson. He held his head up, clear green eyes taking in the freshness of the foliage in all its autumn glory.

"Scouts have reported members of Clan Nutsy at the gates of Ambervale," Llednar voiced, his tone carrying high and clear as the manifestation that he was. Dalen knew: the Queen had created him from the Prince himself. Such a young soul, harbouring such sad thoughts of life. Llednar continued to lean on Dalen's shoulder, pressing harder onto his blade as he balanced on one foot, cracking the marble beneath his feet with the tip of his sword.

The human templar took his breath, and closed his eyes.

* * *

"So all you're going to do is sit and watch, then?" The sadistic laughs and screams of ecstasy resounded around Jagd Dorsa. Dalen's green eyes had been open in pure agony, the blade biting deeper through his throat with every breath of air that he took, and with every wrong answer he gave. His eyes were with a single man, whose eyes had been wide with insanity, a pure maniacal grin plastered over his face, refusing to subside. "You'll get what you asked for, Sa-ra-ban-de!"

Dalen tore at his ropes, tears trailing down his cheeks as his strong frame rocked against the mithril chains, his breathing ragged and shallow. His cries were muffled as they stuffed a cloth into his mouth, fingers that trailed black magic catching his eye. He shook his head.

_No, please! No! Is it not enough that you remove what has had been precious to me?_

"Oh, before I forget, we absolutely **must** take everything from you, Dalen," that one man spoke, gesturing his hands wildly. "You know why, don't you? It's amazing, your strength subdued. So beautiful you have become, but so pathetic in the face of adversary." Those fingers had erupted into flame, Dalen's eyes widening further with realisation as his body rocked in his prison, refusing to budge, chains jangling so pure and bright in the night.

"Have fun, Sa-ra-ban-de!" Those fingers touched the cloth, and Dalen screamed for the last time for injustice, the heat of witch-fire burning into his soul. Tears fell as he resigned to his fate, pain overcoming his senses. He was going to die in the worst place possible: in Jagd Dorsa. Why had he come all the way to a banished land for something he so desired, only to have everything taken away from him?

His golden skin flashed with the flame as his tears continued to fall unchecked now as the last smouldering remnants of the cloth burned in his mouth, making him feel like the flesh of his lungs and his heart had been torn right open. His body was limp, tired, and his mind was overwhelmed with only pain. There was nothing he could do as he pulled feebly at those chains once more.

_Let me go. Please._

His chains came free. And all he saw were the hooded shapes of Tonberries, reaching out for his frail body, blood on their knives. It was all he could remember.

* * *

The templar opened his eyes, letting them burn with fury and rage. His eyes were no longer green, taken on a greater sense of gold with orange flame licking in his pupils. Llednar had glanced over his shoulder, and promptly looked back towards the entrance. He had seen the templar berserk, wreaking havoc outside the Palace, dispersing the riots with a swing of his blade of the twang of his arrow. Even that made Llednar shiver: Dalen's blatant disregard for life had made him most feared, comparable to the Genesis magics of Alpha.

Dalen's lips moved silently. The air around them shivered.

_They arrive._

"Yes, they do," Llednar had replied. Dalen heard the stammer in his voice. He knew what was coming. Llednar had known this was coming. He was not prepared to face it, but he had to all the same. Even as the embodiment of Prince Mewt's own dark side, he held a certain thought process which he considered annoying, but which made him real. It made him Llednar.

And now he had to face one of the real things that real people faced.

Death.

"Well, it seems that it is here that we part, Dalen." Llednar placed both hands now on his shoulders, before pulling himself towards the Templar's strong frame. Dalen took it as a surprise, choosing to carefully place his arms around the boy, like a father to a son, stroking the soft blonde hair beneath his greaves. He would miss the boy greatly.

The Biskmatar turned, and he vanished, Dalen drawing his bow. He looked through the windows of the Chapel, eyeing the clan members warily. His hand drew to his quiver, feeling for two arrows as if he were without the hard, bone greaves that he wore. He saw the back of Llednar's head, the flash of light, the antilaw. He saw the alchemists, the illusionists. He saw the Clan reform, weapons drawn. He saw everything.

It would be everything that would face their death, sooner or later.

He notched the arrows onto the bow, pulling back the Oathbow as he took aim. The Judgemaster blew his whistle, magic crackling above the magicians.

Blood pooled at their feet as they sunk, two together, two through the heart. First blood would always be his, and always.

Dalen saw the shock in their faces. Every single one of them. The chapel of prayers for peace had suddenly become the chapel of sudden death.

The templar walked away, his fairy shoes making no sound as he strode purposefully into the inner sanctuary, finding himself facing…

_Your majesty,_ he mouthed, bowing low to the ground on one knee.

"Arise, Dalen." Her voice was deceptively soothing. The templar continued to let his eyes burn with fury. Queen Remedi noticed this, turning to stare straight into him eyes, her own swirling irises not swaying the templar at all. Her voice suddenly sharpened, resounding throughout the sanctuary.

"Greet them with your best, Dalen. They did not come here to play foolish games with us."

The templar bowed again, twirling the Oathbow in his fingers. The raven of his hair swept in his ponytail as the wind gathered around his form, blazing faster and faster as everything became a blur.

They vanished, leaving the sanctuary in peace.

* * *

A/N: Well, hopefully this will give you an insight onto Dalen's life. Hopefully my writing style would have had changed for the better by 2010 to be able to encompass all the emotions and all the actions that is to preceded this little final encounter with Clan Nutsy. I'm off to bed, becase it's school in five hours. Good Night.


End file.
